


Is That a Flag in Your Pocket...

by Unforth



Series: Tumblr Ficlets: Supernatural [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Marching Band, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 09:27:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10694178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: Tumblr ficlet written to the prompt: Destiel, where one is a tuba player and one is a piccolo player. The band is huge, so there's like 8 tuba players and 40 piccolos, and they have a friendly rivalry going on, where the (somewhat crazy) tubas challenge the piccolos to "Everyone On The Field" volleyball games or tug-of-war, and so Dean and Cas meet during these shenanigans.





	Is That a Flag in Your Pocket...

**Author's Note:**

> A couple days the last few weeks, I've taken prompts for short fics and written and posted them on Tumblr. I wanted to post them on AO3 as well but have been considering how best to do so. A quick survey of my subscribers and followers suggests that people would prefer if I post them all as individual stories and put them in a series together instead of as multiple chapters on the same file or any other of several options, so that's what I'm doing.
> 
> Please note that I generally do not take "out of nowhere" prompts, cause I don't have time, but I will sometimes ask people to send me ideas and I'll write them in the order I receive them. 
> 
> You can follow me on Tumblr at [unforth-ninawaters](unforth-ninawaters.tumblr.com).
> 
> Make sure you read the prompt! 
> 
> [~original post~](http://unforth-ninawaters.tumblr.com/post/159843912548/okay-so-this-prompt-is-based-entirely-on-my)
> 
> Prompt, from lasafara:  
> Okay, so this prompt is based entirely on my experience in marching band but! Destiel, where one is a tuba player and one is a piccolo player. The band is huge, so there's like 8 tuba players and 40 piccolos, and they have a friendly rivalry going on, where the (somewhat crazy) tubas challenge the piccolos to "Everyone On The Field" volleyball games or tug-of-war, and so Dean and Cas meet during these shenanigans. You pick who plays what!

“Hey, Cas, how do you get two piccolo players to play in tune?” Dean shouted, smirking.

Sometimes, Castiel imagined the muscles that must be beneath Dean’s uniform, honed from hours and hours spent carrying his massive tuba through drills and formations and marches.

“By shooting the tuba player who makes the _same damn joke_  every _damn game_ ,” Castiel called back.

Dean grinned, did a thumbs up - holding his tuba one-armed, the son of a bitch! - and pantomimed a _pow-pow_  motion in Castiel’s direction.

Thinking about Dean’s muscles, thinking about Dean’s smile, thinking about Dean’s lung capacity and his damn embouchure and his broad shoulders and…and…and thinking about _Dean_  was just a terrible idea. 

“Cas!” hissed Garth beside him. “ _Cas_ , what’re you doing?”

The percussion was playing the roll.

The show was about to start.

Dean had his tuba at his mouth.

And Castiel was standing and staring like a damn moron.

He got his piccolo to his lips just in time for the first shrill note of the Kansas State theme. There wasn’t room for distractions.

Even a distraction as enticing as Dean Winchester.

Fingers flying over the familiar sequence of notes, Castiel pushed distractions from his mind. 

It was halftime.

It was _their_  time.

And Castiel had a show to put on.

By the time they were done with 15 minutes of continuous playing and marching in configuration, he felt overheated despite the cool temperatures. The drummers looked positively wiped, sweat dripping down their foreheads, and the tuba players…

…oh, hell, Dean looked _fantastic_  with sweat gleaming over his tanned skin and matting his brown hair.

_Damn. Everything. To. Hell._

The band hustled off the field, punching the air with their instruments and waving to the cheering and jeering fans. A whistle cued the players to take the field, but that wasn’t the real game.

“ _Go_!” Dean shouted.

Pandemonium erupted among the band players as people threw their instruments in the nearest safe location and bolted for the practice fields out back. Flags were pulled from pockets, stuffed into belts, and even though they didn’t even have a ball yet, much less any formal means of play, flags were already being stolen for the semi-impromptu game of flag football that the tuba players had challenged the piccoloists to. Trailing behind, Castiel rolled his eyes. His instrument was _expensive_  and he wasn’t going to risk damaging it. The game could wait. 

Apparently, he was the only one who thought so, for no one else entered the band locker room with him. Alone in the sudden quiet, Castiel heaved a sigh, turned toward his locker, and froze.

Dean stood in the doorway.

“Hey, Cas,” he said.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel felt breathless for no reason he could put his finger on. He was being ridiculous. There was no intimacy here; Dean probably hadn’t wanted to throw his beloved tuba aside like rubbish, that’s all.

Dean wasn’t holding a tuba.

Frozen, captivated, Castiel stared as Dean took one deliberate step, another, another, closing the distance between them.

“Not gonna play football, Cas?”

“Dean…”

Castiel held his piccolo up in about the most useless defense gesture imaginable; Dean ignored him, stepped close, leaned in so near that Castiel could feel the humidity of his sweaty hair.

“Is that a flag in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” Dean asked with a throaty chuckle.

Castiel snorted, tried to hold in laughter, failed, and cracked up.

“Are you…are you _serious_?” he gasped.

“Wha?” squawked Dean in protest. “Come on, man, these lines are _classic_!”

“Maybe…maybe you need a _map_ …it’ll…I mean…X marks the spot to a good _pick up line_.” Castiel couldn’t stop laughing. 

“Cas,” Dean whined.

“Are you serious?” Castiel asked again, the full ramifications of the scene finally dawning on him.

They were alone in the locker room.

Dean had said a (totally ridiculous, cheesy, stupid) pick up line to him.

Was Dean _asking him out_?

“You asked me that already,” Dean replied sourly. “Put your wimpy-ass instrument down and get your not-at-all-wimpy ass out for football, Novak.” Pouting, Dean turned toward the door.

“No - Dean! Seriously - are you _serious_?” Castiel insisted, following Dean, grabbing his shoulder, turning him around. “Was that you’re defensive, shy, ridiculous, doomed to fail way of asking me out?”

“No!” Dean scoffed, refusing to meet his eyes. “No, no, God, no! Who would do that? Lame people, that’s who. Can’t you take a joke?”

“Because if you were asking me out, I’d say _yes_ ,” Castiel continued.

“I mean, if I was going to do something like that, I’d, like, make a plan, and…and, like, think it through, not say the first stupid shit that came into my head and totally fuck it up and ruin my chances forever and–” Dean froze. “Wait, what?”

“Dean Winchester, do you _really_  want to know if that’s a flag in my pocket or if I’m just happy to see you?” Castiel asked with mock seriousness. “Because if you are, I think that’s a discussion that I’m _game_  for.”

“Fuck the game,” breathed Dean. “Get over here, you squeaky, out of tune bastard.”

Castiel had never played flag football before.

When they finally, finally made it back to their dorms hours later, Castiel had _still_ never played flag football, but he’d learned a great deal about the flawless muscles beneath Dean’s uniform.

“I guess piccolos aren’t so bed,” murmured Dean as Castiel demonstrated just how developed his cheek muscles were.

“Gonna play you like a flute,” Castiel promised.

“We’re never escaping the musical instruments puns, are we…”

Castiel answered with a demonstration.

Dean stopped complaining.


End file.
